


It’s The Season Where Time Begins to Fade

by torakowalski



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Christmases, Coulson Lives, Darcy Lewis/Ian The Intern, F/M, Feelstide 2013, Flashbacks, M/M, Minor Jane Foster/Thor, Minor Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Presumed Dead, Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 08:08:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1117527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torakowalski/pseuds/torakowalski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six Christmases Past and One Christmas Present. Or the strangest ways the Avengers have spent the holidays.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It’s The Season Where Time Begins to Fade

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be my second Feelstide story, but it turned out that completing two 18k fics in a month was ever so slightly impossible. Sorry mods! 
> 
> Written for the prompt: "After Christmas dinner, the team sits around and shares the strangest place they've spent Christmas."
> 
> Contains spoilers for IM3 and Thor 2 (just in case there's anyone who hasn't seen those).
> 
> Huge thanks to [chaneen](http://chaneen.livejournal.com) for the beta and the Americanpick.

“Well,” Tony says, then slumps back into one of his many couches. “Nope, I got no words. That was _food_.”

“It was very good,” Steve agrees, smiling at Pepper.

Pepper, who’s the only one of them still standing and not sweating meat juice out of her pores, raises her eyebrows. “I didn’t cook it, Captain, but I’ll pass your thanks on to the man who did.”

“Heston Blumenthal,” Tony fake whispers. “He loves me.”

Bruce snorts. He’s sitting on the floor with Natasha, legs stretched out in front of himself and looking pretty zen for once. 

“What’s funny?” Natasha asks, leaning back on one arm and turning toward him slowly, like that’s all the energy she’s got left. Clint’s pretty impressed that their five course Christmas dinner was enough to lay even her flat.

“He was in my lab at three a.m. last night, yelling about dry ice,” Bruce tells her. “And muttering something about a gambling debt?”

“Lies.” Tony flops a bit more to the left, probably so Thor’s giant thighs don’t crush him against the arm of the chair. Why Thor’s chosen to sit in the middle of the three-person couch -- tiny Jane on one side of him, and Tony on the other -- Clint has no idea. Maybe it’s an Asgardian thing: eat, drink, snuggle.

“Would anyone like a drink?” Pepper asks.

There are general groans and complaints that no one can fit anything else inside them. 

Then, “I’ll have a whiskey,” Natasha says, followed by Thor nodding slowly.

“Mead,” he decides, levering up to his feet. “Jane?” He holds a hand out to her, like the giant, blond, heroic gentleman he is.

“Maybe just a small glass of wine,” Jane says, apparently finding some extra reserve of energy at the promise of raiding Stark’s alcohol supply. 

Clint watches them all milling around, picking booze from Tony and Pepper’s massive bar, filling glasses, and jokingly hustling each other out of the way. He smiles. This is good. He’s been dreading Christmas, but if the whole day’s going to be like this, he can probably get through it.

A shadow falls across him as someone passes behind his chair, then a heavy hand squeezes his shoulder. “Okay?” Steve asks quietly.

Clint tips his head back and lets Steve see his smile. Look, see, not an emotional wreck: _smiling_.

“Doing good, Cap,” he says, nodding. “You?”

“Yeah.” Steve nods, too. “Days like this can be hard, but - ” He stops, twisting his mouth into a little smile.

Clint doesn’t need him to go on. He and Steve have had enough embarrassingly feelings-full conversations that he already knows Steve’s on the same page. They both know what it’s like to be surrounded by people and still be stubbornly missing someone else. 

“But it’s okay,” he finishes for Steve.

“It is,” Steve says. He claps Clint on the shoulder again, a little harder. “Go get a drink. It’ll make whatever Tony’s got planned next a little easier.”

Clint groans but stands up. “As long as it’s not fucking charades,” he grumbles, making his way over to the bar where only Natasha and Pepper are left, talking in that low, secret way that they always do when they’re together. 

Tony always mutters about how they’re talking about him, which, Clint suspects, is exactly why they do it.

“Clint,” Pepper says, smiling the full force of her bright, white smile at him. Clint remembers a time when he was terrified of her, but he can’t remember why now; she’s a great lady. 

“Ma’am,” he says. “Cap told me to get a drink, and if Captain America tells me to do something, well.”

“Usually, you do the exact opposite,” Natasha finishes for him, which Clint thinks is unfair. He only does the opposite, if he thinks it’ll work better. Or if his way sounds more fun.

“So do you,” he mutters, which is obviously the best comeback he’s ever made. “Give me beer?”

“There’s whiskey or some port, if you’d prefer,” Pepper offers.

Clint shakes his head. He is never going to be sophisticated enough to live here. Thank god for Bed-Stuy, where he can run away to, whenever it gets too much.

“Have one of these.” Natasha slaps a bottle into his chest, and he grabs it just before it slips to the floor. “It’s Canadian.”

Clint nods. “Classy,” he says. He takes her hand and spins her. Natasha was a dancer before she was anything else and, if she’s feeling safe, she always lets herself get twirled. It’s one of Clint’s favourite secret facts about her.

“Don’t try and pretend you know how to dance,” Natasha says, one hand still in his, squeezing a little because she’s his best girl.

“Hey, you two!” Tony calls. He’s returned to the couch. He’s treating it like it’s his throne, looking more kingly than even Thor usually manages.

(Except for when Thor’s watching soccer; for some reason, that really brings out the regal disdain in him.)

“We’re busy, Stark,” Natasha calls back.

“No, no, never mind that,” Stark says. “You can flirt later. Cap’s about to tell us about the time he spent Christmas in jail.”

“That’s not… Tony!” Steve complains. “That’s not. Well that is what happened, but I wasn’t going to tell everyone.”

“You should never tell Tony something you don’t want everyone to know,” Bruce says.

That earns him an offended, “Hey!” and an “I haven’t told anyone about that time you… _”_

“Proving my point,” Bruce interrupts, in this sing-song voice that makes Tony laugh. It’s kind of weird how those guys are such good friends, but nice. It’s nice. Phil would have thought it was hilarious.

“Better tell us, Cap,” Natasha says, drifting away from Clint and back across the room. It’s not until she’s a full arm’s length away that he realises she’s still holding his hand, so he gets pulled along too. “Stark will just make up something, otherwise.”

Steve sighs and rubs his face with one hand. “You’re all going to tease me,” he says, and Clint relaxes. It’s pretty obvious Steve doesn’t actually mind telling the story, just that he’s kind of embarrassed.

It’s not like Clint thinks that Captain Steve fucking Rogers would need his help, but he would have had to intervene if Steve really hadn’t wanted to tell.

(Don’t ask why Clint feels so protective of Steve. He’s not going to tell you. He doesn’t even like to think about it. It has nothing at all to do with any dead assholes who might have thought that Captain America walked on water.)

“I would like to hear a tale,” Thor says. “It is traditional in Asgard to share stories after a feast. It would be nice to feel at home again.”

Oh, he’s good; Clint’s impressed.

Steve groans. Maybe he knows he’s being manipulated, maybe he doesn’t, but, “Fine,” he says. “I’ll tell you. But only, because I know you’d look it up, anyway.”

That last part is said to Tony, who looks wide eyed and fake-offended, holding up both hands. “Would I?” he asks. Then he nods. “Right, yes, I totally would.”

Steve shakes his head, then clears his throat. “This was back in 1938,” he starts.

***

**New York, December 24, 1938**

All Steve had wanted was a quiet drink after work. He’d met all his pre-Christmas deadlines, his editor was happy with the new artwork, and tomorrow was Christmas Day.

He’d been looking for a drink somewhere quiet and not too smoky, so he wouldn’t spend the whole night hacking up a lung. That was all.

Then there’d been a guy, mean with big fists. He’d said some stuff, Steve had told him not to say it, he’d said some more stuff, and now here Steve was: in the clink on Christmas Eve.

Bucky was going to laugh for the rest of the year.

“What the hell are you looking at?” Steve’s friend from the bar growled. His name was Marion Delacy, Steve had learned at intake. Maybe that was why he had a chip on his shoulder.

He had an ugly split lip that matched Steve’s. He also had a black eye, which Steve didn’t. Steve was a little proud of that, even though it was mostly the result of a lucky punch.

Steve let his eyes travel up and down the guy, stopping when their eyes met.

“A bully,” he said clearly.

Marion Delacy growled. 

"You're not going to fight again, are you?" asked a quiet voice from the corner. “Because there’s no room in here for that.”

Steve turned, surprised. Their cell was dark, only half-lit at this time of night, and he'd figured the pile of cloth and scrawny limbs in the corner was out for the count. Squinting through the light (and the little bit of blood in his eyes), he sees a kid, no more than eighteen or nineteen, watching them closely. 

"No," Steve said automatically, even though it might not be true. "We're not going to fight again."

"Maybe you're not," Marion grumbled, but it sounded like an empty threat. He sighed and sunk down onto one of the free benches, rolling his jaw until it clicked.

Steve decided it was safe enough to turn his back on him for now, and went over to their other companion. "Hey there," he said. "You doing all right?"

The boy shrugged. "Sure," he said, grin cocky and transparent. "I'm having a ball."

"Yeah." Steve grinned back. "Me too." He sat down next to him and stretched his fingers out. His knuckles ached where he’d split them against a rock-hard chin, and he knew it was going to hurt for days, every time he tried to draw.

"What you in for?" the boy asked, after a minute of silence. "You beat him up or he beat you up?"

"He beat me up," Marion said, before Steve could answer. "Me, I was just minding my business, having a quiet drink and - "

"You wouldn't stop pawing the waitresses," Steve interrupted. "I asked you to stop. You didn't."

Marion snorted. "What are you? Some kind of queer? Waitresses are there to be appreciated. They know that. And I was just being appreciative."

Steve didn't flinch at the word 'queer', because he trained himself out of that years ago. 

"And I was just punching you in the face," Steve said pleasantly. "So we're both fine." He clapped his hands together. "I'm sure we'll be out of here in no time."

"Right," said the boy. "They're not gonna let us out 'til we post bail. Don't you know anything?" He frowned. "Don't tell me this is your first time in the clink."

It was actually. Steve's fights tended to happen more in back alleys and he tended to lose them a lot more convincingly. "I take it it's not yours?" he asked.

"Not hardly," the boy said, puffing up his chest like he was proud. 

“What did you do?” Marion asked, starting to look interested. Steve didn’t want a man like that taking an interest in a kid. Who knew what kind of paths he might lead him down. 

"Punched a cop,” the boy said.

"Sure," Marion snorted, then flopped back onto the bench, eyes closed.

Steve watched him in disbelief, wondering if he was actually planning to sleep here. Two minutes later, he started snoring, so Steve had his answer. He glanced across at the boy and found him watching him back. 

"Steve Rogers," Steve said, holding out his hand.

"Rex," the boy said, and shook it. He didn't offer a last name, and Steve didn't ask for one.

"You really punched a cop?" Steve asked. Rex was dark-haired and dark-eyed. He could have been Bucky in a life where the nuns hadn't taken him in.

“Really did,” Rex said easily.

“Why?” Steve asked. If some kind of injustice had been done to this boy, he was going to have to do something about it. He wasn’t sure how, yet, but he would find a way.

Rex shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.” He didn't sound as cocky as he had a minute ago. He pulled his feet up onto the bench, and wrapped his arm around his legs, the first thing he'd done that left Steve see how young he really was. 

“Rex?” Steve asked. “You can tell me. There must have been a good reason, if it was worth spending a night in jail.”

Rex peered at him over the tops of his knees. “You’ve got it backwards,” he said. “It was _so_ I could spend a night in jail.”

Steve frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s Christmas Eve,” Rex said, tapping his fingers on his jeans. “It’s nice to get to spend a night inside.”

Steve had been a little buzzed before: high on adrenaline and the satisfaction of standing his ground, even if he wished that his ground had required slightly less punching. Now he felt suddenly, overwhelmingly sorry.

He waited a while, but Rex didn't say anything else and Marion just kept snoring, so he got up eventually, walked over to an empty patch of floor, and lay himself down. He'd slept in worse places, and one night on a cold floor wouldn't kill him.

Hopefully.

***

Steve woke up early to metal bars clanging, and a stiff, awkward pain radiating the whole way down his left side.

"On your feet," growled a very stern voice, which Steve automatically obeyed, rolling to his feet, then wincing, leaning into the bars around the cell when his foot didn't want to take his weight. 

He must have sprained it in the fight last night. That or random parts of him were about to start dropping off in punishment for his night on the floor.

"Sir?" Steve asked, trying to appear as innocent as he possibly could.

The policeman just rolled his eyes. "Your bail's here," he said, and turned on his heel, marching off.

"Merry fucking Christmas to you, too," muttered Marion from behind Steve, and despite himself, Steve laughed.

He cast a look over at Rex, but he was still curled in on himself. Either he was still sleeping, or he was pretending to sleep, Steve didn’t know which, but it was obvious that Steve wasn’t going to get a chance to talk to him again. 

"Merry Christmas," Steve said to them both, before following the policeman out of the cell. Another cop locked it behind him with a clank that was no less daunting and final from the outside than it was from the inside.

Bucky was waiting for Steve at the processing desk. His collar was half off and his hair was a mess. He was leaning on the desk a little more than necessary. He looked like he hadn't been home yet.

“Are you drunk?” Steve hissed, sliding up to him.

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Excuse you?” he asked. He draped an arm around Steve’s narrow shoulders, so yes, he was definitely drunk. “Which one of us just hauled ass down here on Christmas morning to bail your punk ass out?”

Steve rolled his eyes but he couldn’t hold it. He grinned. “Thank you, Bucky.”

“Yeah, shut up,” Bucky muttered. He watched, arms folded, while Steve had his things returned to him, then spun on his heel. “Ready?”

“Sure,” Steve agreed, then stopped. “No, wait, sorry.”

Bucky turned around, dark eyebrows raised in a look that meant he was very, very unimpressed. “What for?” he asked suspiciously.

Steve clasped his hands in front of himself and smiled as winningly as he knew how. It took Bucky a minute to sigh, slump his shoulders, and repeat, “ _What_?”

“There are these two other guys back there,” Steve started.

“You have got to be kidding me,” said Bucky, who had always been able to read Steve’s mind. He shook his head and made his way back to the desk. He pulled his wallet back out and slapped it down on the countertop. “How much? Don’t suppose you do a three for two sale?”

The cop on duty just shook his head.

“Thank you, Bucky,” Steve said again, which earned him the middle finger and a very grudging smile.

***

They walked home without saying very much. Bucky was quiet, but he didn’t seem mad. When he was mad, he made sure you _knew_ about it, but this morning, he just seemed to be thinking. He let his hip bump Steve’s once, twice, always ready with a hand on Steve’s arm to stop him from getting knocked too far sideways.

It was almost eerily quiet this morning, the early hour and Christmas Day combining to keep most people off the streets. 

There were a few lights on in the windows of their apartment building - mostly the families who Steve knew had kids - and their floor smelled spicy with slowly roasting meat thanks to Mrs Ahern in the apartment at the end.

Steve was hopeful that he and Bucky would get some leftovers later; she usually took pity on “the poor, motherless boys” as she liked to call them, and Bucky, at least, was shameless about playing up to it.

“How was your evening?” Steve asked, while Bucky unlocked the door.

“Eh.” Bucky shrugged one shoulder. “Pretty girls, plenty of beer. The usual.” He swung the door open and flashed Steve a grin over his shoulder. “You know me; I never do anything wild.”

Steve laughed. “And if you believe that, you’ll believe anything,” he said, following Bucky inside.

As soon as they were in, and the door was closed behind them, Bucky spun around. He planted a hand on Steve’s shoulder, squeezing once, hard, before letting up. Steve wanted to roll his eyes and say that he wasn’t _that_ fragile, but Bucky looked very serious, so he didn’t.

“I got home and you weren’t there,” Bucky said, quick and quiet. “Don’t do that again.”

“It’s not like I planned it,” Steve started, annoyed.

“Don’t do it again,” Bucky repeated. He swallowed. “Please.”

“Yeah, sure,” Steve said, surprised. It wasn’t that he didn’t know Bucky loved him, but he hardly ever made it this clear. “Sorry.”

“Whatever,” Bucky said, then pulled Steve into a hug. 

Steve went easily, willingly, wrapping his arms around Bucky’s wide shoulders, clapping him on the centre of the back. Then, when Bucky didn’t ease up, just squeezed tighter, he stopped patting, and rubbed his hand up and down Bucky’s spine instead.

“Sorry,” Steve said again, quieter. “Just had to teach that jerk a lesson. I didn’t think - ”

Bucky pulled back, laughing awkwardly. “‘course you did,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck and taking another step away, then one more.

The movement drew Steve’s gaze over Bucky’s shoulder. He felt his mouth drop open, but couldn’t figure out which words to use. 

Their tiny living room was decorated for Christmas, which it definitely hadn’t been when he left for work yesterday. There were paper garlands and streamers obviously cut from spare wrapping paper, a chain made from folded newspaper, and strings of bottle tops hanging from the ceiling, glinting in the early morning sunlight.

Steve laughed, turning to grin at Bucky.

“I know it looks dumb,” Bucky started.

Steve shook his head. “It’s great,” he said. “It’s perfect. When did you do it?”

Bucky looked away, fiddling with the button on his shirt cuff that always stuck. “Last night. Had plenty of time when you didn’t come home.”

Steve felt immediately guilty. “I thought you went out?”

“Yeah, after,” Bucky said, shrugging. He glanced sideways at Steve, then away. “It don’t really feel like Christmas, if you’re not here.”

Steve startled, surprised and pleased. “Idiot,” he said. “I’m here now.”

“Yeah.” Bucky smiled, shoulders relaxing. “No one else’d put up with you.”

“No one else’d bail me out,” Steve corrected, which made Bucky laugh. “So, what’s the plan?”

“Sleeping,” Bucky said with feeling. “But gifts first.”

“As if I bought you anything,” Steve said, which made Bucky rolls his eyes. 

“It’s under your bed,” Bucky said. “Wait there, I’ll get yours.”

Steve sat down on the couch while he waited. His bones were aching from the uncomfortable night’s sleep, but he wasn’t going to tell Bucky that; he’d only worry.

“Bucky?” Steve called after him. “I’m glad you’re here too.”

“Where else would I be?” Bucky called back. He sounded like he was rolling his eyes.

Steve leaned his head against the back of the couch, looking up at the ridiculous homemade decorations that Bucky had clearly worked hard on. 

“Yeah,” he said and smiled to himself.

***

**Now:**

“You know,” Tony says thoughtfully. “I was really hoping there was going to be at least one stripper involved in that story.”

“ _Tony_ ,” Pepper scolds.

“What?” he demands. “Captain Perfect tells you he spent Christmas Eve in jail, you start to imagine all sorts of things.”

Steve smiles quietly, mostly ignored by everyone now that Tony and Pepper are bickering. They’re the sort of couple who are fun to watch argue, because you know it’s going to involve epic takedowns on Pepper’s side and some hilarious grovelling from Tony later.

Clint stretches out a foot and nudges Steve in the thigh with his toes.

“Okay?” he asks, when Steve looks over. 

“I am,” Steve says quietly. “It was good to get to talk about it.”

“Yeah?” asks Clint, who’d rather punch himself in the nuts than share any of his past Christmases. Well, the ones that counted, anyway.

“So Stark,” Clint calls, trying to pretend that Steve isn’t still _looking_ at him. “How many of your Christmases have involved strippers?”

Tony grins while Pepper groans and covers her eyes. “Did you _have_ to ask that?” she asks. “Now he’s going to tell you about 2005.”

“2005,” Tony says dreamily. “Now, that was a Christmas.”

***

**New York, December 24, 2005**

“Blah blah blah children’s hospital blah blah,” Pepper said, or something like that, anyway. Tony wasn’t really listening. Tony was very busy in his lab, and he had no idea why Pepper was interrupting him.

He also had no idea what day it was or the last time he’d slept, but let’s not go into that.

“Mr Stark?” Pepper snapped. “Tony? Are you listening to me?”

“Mmm, that’s better, yes, no more Mr Stark,” Tony muttered, switching out one wrench for a smaller one. 

“So you’re not listening to me?” Pepper asked. “That’s fine.” She slapped something down on the table. “Just make sure that you’re at this address at this time. Happy will take you.”

“Happy will…” Tony started to parrot. He’d learned after a long line of PAs had quit, that repeating things made it seem as though he was listening. Then he started to actually listen. “Wait, where will you be?”

Pepper had been halfway to the door; now she stopped and turned, giving him a look over her shoulder that was very unimpressed, if also very polite. Tony liked that about her - well, Tony liked everything about her, but her bitchface was one of his favourites.

“I have the afternoon off,” she said. “It’s Christmas Day tomorrow, which you are expecting me to work, so I’m having my Christmas today. We talked about this, Mr Stark.”

“Tony,” Tony corrected, while trying very hard to remember if they had talked about it. He assumed they had; Pepper was much more likely to remember than he was. “Why do I want you to work tomorrow?”

A look passed over her face as though she were praying hard for strength. He thought about feeling bad about that, then forgot. 

“I really can’t say, Mr Stark,” she said, with a tight smile. “If that’ll be all.”

“Yeah, yeah, off you go,” Tony said, waving her away. The glass door swished open and swished closed again. Tony kept his eyes on her the whole way up the stairs, just so he would remember to say, “JARVIS? Remind me to give her tomorrow off.”

“Certainly, sir,” JARVIS said promptly. “Although may I remind you that I am not your personal assistant.”

“Aww, baby, you should be,” Tony said, distracted by a bright light that had started flickering on the motherboard he was tinkering with. Most concerningly, he hadn’t installed a light there. “Is it possible this thing is gaining sentience?”

“I’ve found that that is always possible when you are involved, sir,” JARVIS said.

“Snarky,” Tony said approvingly. “Let’s run it again, but turn it up to an eight, okay?”

“Certainly,” JARVIS said. “Shouldn’t you check the itinerary Miss Potts left for you?”

“Eh, later,” Tony said, and turned back to his motherboard.

***

“Wait,” he said, a few hours later, after Happy had bullied him out of the lab (where vital shit had been happening, _vital_ ; it might have looked like a giant game of Twister, but it had been vital), and outside into the car.

It wasn’t that Tony was fundamentally against the concept of being outside, but he was when it meant leaving his lab mid-experiment. 

“What am I waiting for?” Happy asked from the driver’s seat. He hadn’t rolled up the privacy partition, even when Tony was changing into his suit, so if he’d gotten a free show, that was entirely his own fault.

Tony leaned forward, resting his elbows on the lip of the open screen. “Where are we going?”

“St Mary’s Children’s Hospital,” Happy said, putting the car into drive when the light in front of them changed.

“What? No.” Tony reached across the divider and smacked his palm against Happy’s shoulder. “No, no, definitely not. Turn this car around.”

“Boss?” Happy asked. It wasn’t a particularly respectful sort of _boss_ , but then Tony was big enough to admit that he probably hadn’t earned one in the past decade that Happy had been working for him.

"I don't do children, Happy. Especially not sick ones. That's..." He shuddered. "I'm not doing that. What was Pepper _thinking_?"

Happy hummed, but didn't answer.

"What?" Tony asked, suspicious. "What _was_ Pepper thinking?"

Happy kept his eyes front like a good little driver. "Maybe she was thinking that Stark Industries sold weapons to a company with links to Cuba last month and you could use the good press."

"Allegedly," Tony said, because it was. He wasn't sure that had really happened. It seemed kind of sloppy. "Allegedly we did that. And how is me making nice with tiny, sad humans going to help with that? People aren't just going to..." He retracted his hand so he could dramatically slap himself in the forehead. It emphasised his point nicely. "What am I talking about? People are definitely that stupid. Still, not doing it. Turn the car around."

Happy sighed, but did as he was told. “Where to, boss?” he asked, in the kind of tone that said he hated his job. Since he’d been using that tone for the whole ten years, Tony wasn’t worried.

“Left on Fifth,” Tony said, “I’m sure someone’s having a party somewhere.”

***

**Now:**

“Wait,” Natasha interrupts. “You bailed on children to go to a holiday party? _Stark_.” 

“Hey.” Tony holds up his hands. “One, that was a long time ago; I was a whole different man then. Well, slightly different man. I have better facial hair now, anyway. And two, listen to the end of the story, Agent Romanoff.”

Pepper shifts, looking as though she’s about to stand up. “I’m not actually sure I can sit through this story again, Tony,” she says. “I’m sure it’s hilarious, but it didn’t - ”

“No, hey, wait.” Tony reaches out and grips Pepper’s fingers. 

Clint thinks he was aiming for her wrist, but their fingers curl together when they connect and it’s stupidly sweet. 

“What?” Pepper asks, suspiciously. She stops trying to leave, which makes Tony’s lips tilt up into a grin.

“Wait,” Tony repeats. “You’ll like the ending, I promise.”

“Hmm.” Pepper settles back down onto the couch, tucking her legs up under her. “This better be good.”

“It’s _great_ ,” Tony assures her. “Well, the next part not so much, but after.”

“I’m still waiting for the strippers,” Clint muses, earning himself a slap on the arm from Natasha and a snigger from, of all people, Bruce.

***

**New York, December 25, 2005**

It was a good party. Tony wasn’t sure who was throwing it, but whoever they were, they were very welcoming, and they’d let him buy champagne for the whole guest list.

They’d also thrown in some very friendly young ladies, who were more than happy to sit on his lap and let him tuck hundred dollar bills into their sparkly bras.

Actually, it was a great party. Tony was considering staying here for the rest of his life. Then Happy had to go and appear in his peripheral vision, brandishing a phone and a grumpy face.

“Happy,” Tony called, leaning his head against one of the sparkly bras, because why not, and smirking at Happy. “Having fun?”

Happy shoved the phone at Tony, smacking it against his ear when Tony refused to take it.

“Ow,” Tony said. He ended up saying it into the phone, which he hadn’t meant to do.

“Mr Stark?” That was Pepper’s voice. “Are you hurt?”

If Tony had been smart - no, scratch that, Tony was smart. If Tony had been sober(er), he would have said yes. What he actually said was, “There are sparkly boobs in my face, Pepper, I am feeling no pain.”

Pepper made a noise that Tony couldn’t describe. He didn’t think it was a positive one. 

“Where are you?” she asked. “I swear to god, if you’re at a party right now, I quit.”

“Don’t quit,” Tony said, hoping he sounded soothing. The lovely lady on his lap raised her eyebrows, as though asking if he wanted privacy. He definitely didn’t want privacy; whatever Pepper wanted to yell at him about, she could yell just as easily while he was getting a lapdance.

“Yeah,” Tony said, right over the top of whatever Pepper was saying. “I decided sick kids really weren’t for me. Let’s just send them a bigger check, okay? There. Happy?”

The silence on the other end of the phone probably meant that she agreed. Hopefully. Tony decided not to worry about it. 

“No I am _not_ happy!” Pepper’s voice cut through everything, from the pounding music to the gentle thrum of alcohol in Tony’s ears. “I know that you’re self-centred, Mr Stark, but I cannot believe that you would - ”

“Hey, self-centred?” Tony asked. “That’s a little harsh.”

On his lap, the sparkly lady raised her other eyebrow. Tony wasn’t sure what her point was.

“I just… I can’t.” Pepper’s voice was brittle, carefully controlled. Even Tony could tell that it was faked. “I cannot. I quit.”

This happened to Tony a lot more than you’d expect. 

Well.

It happened a lot, anyway.

“Sure, whatever, tell it to HR,” he said and hung up the call before she could.

Something odd and cold settled in his stomach. He thought for a minute that the bourbon he’d drunk was about to object to all the champagne he’d poured on top of it, but it turned out that that wasn’t it. 

Huh.

He tapped the stripper lady on the knee, waiting until she stood up before he pushed to his feet and turned to face Happy. Well, okay, so he tripped over the leg of the chair and sort of wobbled to face Happy, but the effect was the same. 

There was Happy. And Tony was facing him.

“Pepper quit,” Tony told him, confused.

Happy nodded. Happy did not look confused. He didn’t even look surprised.

“Do you think she meant it?”

“I think she probably did,” Happy said, with a wince that didn’t look totally unsympathetic. 

“Well that’s just… no.” Tony planted his hands on his hips. “No.”

“No?” Happy asked. 

“No,” Tony agreed. He snapped his fingers and turned to the door. Wherever the door was. Wherever _he_ was. “No, we’re going to show her.”

“How?” Happy asked carefully. He caught Tony by the elbow and steered him to the right. Oh hey, there was the door.

“St Mary’s Children’s Hospital, right?” Tony asked. “You know where that is?”

“I do,” Happy agreed. “It’s probably not open for visitors now though.”

Tony made a dismissive noise. “We’ll see about that,” he said. “But first. A toy store. Find me a toy store, will you?”

“Yes, boss,” Happy said. Tony wasn’t sure if he was trying to sound disapproving, but he didn’t manage it.

***

The hospital was closed to visitors. Even, apparently, to visitors who’d just bought out Toys R Us, and arrived bearing endless sacks of toys.

Tony was a great combination of drunk and indignant. He loitered on the front steps for two minutes, huffing in irritation, then he waved Happy over. 

“We’re going in,” he declared.

Happy frowned, shaking his head. “You cannot break into a hospital.”

“I totally can, don’t be ridiculous,” Tony said. He looked back at the entrance desk. The night receptionist was terrifying. “Let’s go over the roof.”

“No, come on,” Happy complained, but he followed Tony anyway, three of the five bags hefted over his shoulders. 

It turned out to be easier than expected to break into the hospital. Tony made a mental note to worry about that later. Or, maybe not worry, worrying was exhausting. Maybe he’d just buy them a better security system, instead.

“Now what?” Happy asked, once they’d pried a door open and were standing in a long, brightly coloured corridor. It didn’t smell like a hospital; Tony would give it that.

“Now, you go that way and I go this way.” Tony waved one hand vaguely. “Chop, chop. Be a good Christmas Elf and spread good cheer and all that bullshit.”

Happy looked at him like he was crazy, then nodded once and turned away. Tony was pretty sure he heard him whisper, “Ho ho ho,” under his breath.

There was something very strange about creeping around a children’s hospital, leaving gifts by the sides of sleeping children, but it was oddly satisfying too.

Not that Tony would ever admit that, if someone asked.

Not that anyone would ever know in order to ask.

He reached into his nearly-empty bag and pulled out the first plastic-wrapped thing he could find. He turned back to the bed and froze.

The kid in this bed was awake. He was staring at Tony with wide, dark eyes, his pale lips formed into a perfect circle.

“Shh,” Tony hissed automatically. 

“What are you doing?” the kid whispered back.

“What are _you_ doing?” Tony asked. “Don’t you know you’re supposed to be asleep? Jeez, it’s Christmas Eve.”

The kid frowned. “Are you… Are you Santa?” He didn’t seem sure. Smart kid.

“Do I look like Santa?” Tony asked. The back of his neck felt itchy; he thought he might be blushing, for fuck’s sake. But getting caught at this had not been part of his plan. 

“Kind of?” the kid decided. He pushed himself up on one elbow. Tony pretended not to notice the tubes and wires that came along with him. “What have you got for me?”

Tony glanced down. He had a game of Operation in his hands, but suddenly that didn’t seem like a good gift. “What do you want?”

“That’s not how Santa works,” the kid said suspiciously.

“Well obviously it is,” Tony said, rolling his eyes. “Because here I am, doing it. Now, what do you want?”

Finally, the kid smiled. “Have you got a puppy?” he asked.

Tony bit back a groan. Fuck, of course he got the kid who wanted a real live _animal_. He grappled around in the bag for a minute, then crowded in triumph (but quietly, quiet crowing, he didn’t want more of the kids to wake up). 

“How about this?” he asked, and thrust a soft-furred toy dog at the kid.

The kid grabbed it with both hands and clutched it to his chest. “Thank you,” he said, and pressed the end of his nose into the top of its head. 

Tony cleared his throat. “You’re welcome,” he said. “Now, go to sleep. And don’t tell anyone that you saw me.”

The kid slid down under his comforter, toy dog still clamped in his arms. “I won’t,” he promised. “Thanks, Santa.”

“Whatever,” Tony said. He resisted any urge to touch the kid’s hair, deciding to blame it all on the alcohol, and turned away.

***

**Now:**

“Oh,” Pepper says softly, breaking the surprised silence that’s followed the end of Tony’s story. “Oh, Tony.”

Tony shrugs. “What? It wasn’t a big deal or anything.”

Judging from Pepper’s face, she definitely thinks it’s a big deal. “I can’t believe you did that,” she says, and smiles the sort of smile that Clint’s never seen her give Tony before. It’s definitely the sort of smile that normally only happens behind closed doors.

“So, like, if you didn’t know he’d decided to play Santa, how come you didn’t quit, after all?” Clint asks.

It takes Pepper a minute to tear her eyes away from Tony. When she does, she wrinkles her nose. “He sent me a partridge in a pear tree,” she says, laughing.

“Not seriously?” Bruce asks.

She nods her head. “Seriously. And two turtle doves the next day. By the time the three French hens came, I had to go back before it all got too ridiculous.”

“Before?” Natasha snorts.

“I do not understand?” Thor asks, which leads to Jane explaining the song to him. And then to him enthusiastically singing it. 

“You could have just told me what you did,” Clint hears Pepper say softly to Tony.

Tony shrugs. “It really was no big deal.”

“Idiot,” Pepper says affectionately, and kisses him on the lips. Clint looks away. 

“Five gold rings!” Thor laughs happily from his corner of the room, and Jane laughs along with him, even though she’s covering her face with one hand. 

Clint is surrounded by couples in love. Surely, there should be a rule against this. 

“Are you enjoying your first Christmas?” Steve asks Thor. He’s grinning, like Thor’s enthusiasm is infecting him too. Clint just hopes he doesn’t start singing; Clint has heard him sing, and ironically, Captain America does _not_ do a good Star Spangled Banner.

“Very much,” Thor says. He slings an arm around Jane’s shoulders, and beams. “My Jane took me to a marvellous winter fair filled with hot mead and yards and yards of meat.”

Clint snorts, he can’t help it.

“A Christmas market,” Jane explains. “We were in London, and there’s one in Hyde Park.”

“And it was magnificent,” Thor agrees.

***

**London, December 20, 2013**

“Smile!” Darcy commanded, as she so often did. Thor lifted his mug of sweet-smelling red Gløgg and toasted her.

“Perfect,” she said. “Now give me back my wine.”

Thor looked down at the mug in his other hand and discovered it to be empty. “Apologies,” he said, trying not to smile at the expression on her face. “These mugs are so tiny. Here.” He thrust his own mug at her. “And I will buy you another.”

“With what? Jane’s money?” Darcy asked, rolling her eyes. She tucked her arm through his elbow, leading him back into the crowds, so he knew that she had not meant to offend him.

However, he was somewhat offended. Or perhaps he was ashamed. He was used to experiencing both those feelings on a grander scale than this, but they were no more pleasant when reduced down to the petty.

“Do you think I am taking advantage of Jane’s good nature?” he asked, lowering his head so that Darcy would be able to hear him above the cheerful music.

“What?” Darcy spun around to look at him. Some of her long hair slipped free of her knitted red cap and spun with her. “Are you kidding?” 

“It is what you said,” Thor pointed out.

Darcy rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I was kidding? You know, ha ha, kept man, yadda yadda… Okay so it was a bad joke. Sorry. Stop looking at me like I kicked your reindeer.”

“SHIELD have offered me paid employment,” Thor said. He had always intended to rejoin the Avengers, but it had failed to occur to him that SHIELD’s offer of money for his services might be a consideration.

Darcy snorted. “Awesome. You can buy me a new iPod with your first paycheck. You know that Agent Coulson asshole never did give me a new one?”

“Agent Coulson died in New York,” Thor said, then wished he hadn’t when Darcy went quiet. “I’m sorry. I will of course buy you an iPod.” He had no idea what one was, but how difficult could it be to find out?

“Nah, s’okay.” Darcy shrugged. “Oh hey, let’s go over there. Chocolate covered bananas! All our phallic dreams in one place.”

“I do not have phallic dreams…” Thor said, but let himself be led across the market to another stall. 

“You will after this,” Darcy assured him, and thrust something rainbow-coloured at him. It was attached to the end of a stick and did, indeed, look a lot like a penis.

“This is a banana?” he asked dubiously. He had bananas on his cereal every morning, because Erik claimed they were a vital start to a healthy day, but they did not look like this.

“Trust me,” Darcy said. She exchanged more coins for her own penis-banana and bit into it, grinning at Thor around the tip. “See?”

Thor copied her, which made her laugh, then felt the corners of his mouth turn down. Only years of attending banquets where his mother’s staff served delicacies from their visitors’ homelands stopped him spitting it out.

He swallowed, then handed the stick to Darcy. “That is very sweet,” he said. “Please accept it with my compliments.”

“Awesome,” Darcy said, and leaned back against the stall. She ate one banana and waved the other at Thor while she spoke. “Now, about the Jane thing. No I don’t think you’re scrounging off her, but I do think you need to keep in mind that you eat like, sixteen times more than any normal human, and our grocery bills are through the roof. Be grateful and shit.”

“I am grateful,” Thor said solemnly. “Very grateful.”

“Good.” She jabbed him with one of her now empty sticks. “And I don’t just mean sex grateful, okay? Because we share a wall and I _know_ you’ve been showing her that kind of gratitude. Seriously, I know that far too well.”

Thor smiled slowly. “We also share a wall with you,” he reminded her. “How is Ian?”

Darcy blushed, then looked annoyed at herself. She blew out a breath, and glared at Thor. He smiled back easily. 

“Ian is… Oh look he’s right over there,” Darcy said, interrupting herself and waving a stick at first Ian, then Jane when they came tripping out of the crowd of people.

“Phallic banana?” Darcy asked, offering it to Ian.

Ian shrugged. “Thanks,” he said.

Jane had migrated over to Thor’s side, which was where Thor always wanted her to be, although he would never say such a thing and insult her independence. “Hi,” she said.

“Hello.” He smiled.

She smiled back. “I’m going to kiss you now,” she said, and then she did.

Darcy made disparaging noises, but Thor was paying very little attention. Jane was smaller, more physically delicate, than most of the women he had kissed, but she kissed with the confidence of a warrior.

Thor found it addictive.

"Ugh, gross, there are kids watching, you know," Darcy said.

Thor pulled back, just in case Jane was going to be embarrassed, but Jane was glaring. He very much enjoyed her glare.

"Oh really," Jane asked. "Ms 'let me mack on my boyfriend all over Greenwich'."

"Well we're not making out _now_ , are we?" Darcy said, hands on her hips. "Because we have decorum."

"We could," Ian suggested, hopefully. 

"Hush, Intern," Darcy said, patting him on the hand.

He looked quite pleased by the patting, and not particularly offended.

There was a sudden commotion to the left of them, and Thor turned, along with the others, to see a man come stumbling out of the crowd, rubbing his arm. The young lady next to him was laughing, which he did not seem to appreciate.

"It's impossible," he grumbled as he passed them. "You'd have to be Captain America or something to win that game."

"What game?" Thor asked, curiosity immediately piqued.

The man pointed back the way he'd come. "Strength contest," he said. "Completely impossible. I wouldn't bother mate, it's rigged."

"Rigged?" Thor asked, but he'd already left. Thor shook his head; either way, a strength contest sounded like a good way to prove his worth.

"He means they're cheating," Jane said. "Oh. You're going to check it out anyway. Yes, nevermind. Darcy, come on..."

Thor stopped on the edge of the crowd that had gathered around one of the stalls. He waited for Jane and the others to join him, then carefully pressed his way to the front, making sure they were still with him.

A man in a fur hat was standing in front of a tall metallic structure, a heavy wooden mallet in his hand. "Roll up, roll up," he said, "test your strength against the high striker."

"That doesn't look very German," Darcy muttered at Thor's elbow.

The gamesman turned to them, obviously noticing that he had an interested audience. "The prize is a month's supply of Grolsch," he said.

Darcy laughed. "Much more German," she muttered.

"Care to test your strength, sir?" the man asked, holding out his hammer to Thor.

Thor tipped his head. "What is the challenge?"

The man pointed at the large flat metalic disk at his feet. "Hit this with the hammer. If the lights go all the way up to the top, you win."

"That is all?" Thor asked, stepping forward.

"Thor," Jane said. "It's set up not to let you win."

"I simply have to hit this disk with a hammer to win? That is the only rule?" Thor asked.

"Well, yeah." The man's eyes narrowed, as though he suspected a trap. "Here you go." He held out his mallet.

"May I use my own?" Thor asked.

The man still looked suspicious, but he nodded. "Sure. If you... brought your own hammer to a Christmas Market."

Around him, a few people sniggered. Thor could forgive them that; he was deliberately dressed in clothes of Midgard so as to appear inconspicuous. They did not know who they were laughing at.

“I did not,” Thor assured him. “But that is easily rectified.” He lifted his hand to the sky and waited.

“Yay, this is going to be great!” Darcy said, while Jane muttered, “Oh god,” under her breath.

Mjölnir arced gracefully through the air, cutting a line between the rooftops covered in fake snow and sparkling white lights. 

“Hey, what?” the man asked, but Thor didn’t give him time to object, just grabbed the handle and swung. Mjölnir came down hard onto the base of game, sparks flying as she connected. There was a startled pause and then the tower lit up all the way to the top, a bell chiming triumphantly.

Thor tucked Mjölnir into his belt and bowed to the man. “I believe I have won,” he said.

“No, wait, I don’t…” The man frowned. “Who are you?”

“Duh, Thor,” Ian said, helpfully. “Don’t you watch the news?”

“That’s cheating,” the man protested, but he was staring at Thor with wide eyes and didn’t seem inclined to press the issue.

“One month’s supply of mead was the bargain, I believe?” Thor asked. He would not normally hold so pitiful a man to his bet, but he could not abide a man who would cheat others out of what was rightfully theirs.

“Thor,” Jane said, catching his arm. “I get that you’re making a point, but what are we going to do with a month’s supply of Grolsch?”

“Drink it?” Thor suggested. He thought back to what Darcy had said earlier. “I am aware that you are putting yourself out in hosting me. Consider this my repayment.”

“Wait, what, you’re not…” Jane narrowed her eyes and leant around Thor. “Darcy, what did you say?”

“Nothing.” Darcy held up her hands. One of them appeared to now be holding one of Ian’s and they both looked equally surprised to discover that. “Don’t discourage him from paying us in beer, Jane. _Beer_.”

“Or we could donate it to these fine people?” Thor offered, since Jane's glare was growing darker; her couch was very small and he had no desire to sleep there, tonight.

“Better,” Jane agreed.

“No, not better, what?” Darcy put her hands on her hips. “We won that fair and… well, okay, Thor won it, mostly fairly.”

“Do not worry,” Thor said, putting a hand on Darcy’s shoulder, “We will make sure to retain a sizeable portion. You will not go thirsty, this Yuletide.”

Darcy grinned at him. “You know,” she said, “there’s something real classy about the way you say _Darcy, let’s have a kegger_.”

“Darcy,” Jane sighed, but she was smiling. Darcy laughed and flung her free arm around Jane’s neck. 

“I like your boyfriend,” she announced. “He can stay.”

Thor didn’t understand the whole of this conversation, but his friends were happy and therefore, so was he.

***

**Now:**

“So _that’s_ where all the beer came from?” Tony asks, laughing. “Thor, I’m impressed.”

Thor nods. “I would be rude to attend your gathering empty-handed,” he says.

“Also, my apartment was so full of beer kegs, the floor threatened to give way,” Jane adds. 

Clint, who has been doing his fair share of drinking Thor’s beer, laughs. “‘preciate it,” he says. “But you know those kind of games are pretty much _always_ rigged, right?”

Thor frowns. “It is wrong,” he says. “It is no test of skill, if the game is impossible to win.”

“Eh.” Clint shrugs. “It’s not about winning, it’s just about showing off in front of your sweetheart.” Turned out it’s still kind of inbuilt in him to stick up for carnival games. He doesn’t even know why at this point.

Tony grins across at him. “You got a sweetheart you want to impress, Barton?” he asks. 

Clint freezes. It’s so sudden, it catches him by surprise. One second he’s relaxed in his chair, the next every muscle in his body hurts.

“No,” he says and forces himself to breathe out, breathe the pain away.

Natasha throws her legs over his, bare feet landing in his lap. “Footrub,” she tells him loudly. 

He squeezes her feet too hard, he knows he does, but it’s not like she isn’t giving him an excuse to hold onto _something_ until he can get his breathing right again.

“Yes, ma’am,” Clint mutters for appearance’s sake, and bends forward, running his fingers over her red-painted toes. 

“This is fun!” Tony declares. “Not the whole... incestuous SHIELD thing that’s happening over there with the Murder Twins.” Natasha looks over and gives him the finger; Clint keeps his head down. “But the whole sharing stories part. Bruce, your turn.”

“Mine?” Bruce asks, sounding startled. “What? No. I don’t have any fun holiday stories.”

“So tell us an unfun one,” Tony says, sounding unconcerned. “Come on, Bruce, don’t hide your light under a bushel. Wait, what’s a bushel? Is it like a bush? Because that’d be a good place for you to hide, right? Lots of green.”

Bruce makes that reluctant chuckle noise that Tony always seems to be able to force out of him. Clint doesn’t get how Bruce hasn’t killed him yet, but somehow he seems to _enjoy_ him. 

Phil enjoyed him too, although he always refused to admit it. Clint digs his fingers into the sole of Natasha’s foot a little too hard, making her kick him on the ankle with her other foot.

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

“Just make sure I can still walk in the morning,” she says, and swaps one foot for the other.

Bruce and Tony are still bickering across the room. It’s totally going to end up with Bruce telling some sort of story, even if it’s sciency and incomprehensible, which Clint guesses it probably will be.

All of a sudden, Bruce seems to figure that out too, because he sighs and says, “Fine. But it’s going to be boring.”

“I love a boring story,” Pepper says. Clint looks up to check to see if she’s being sarcastic, and finds that she’s just smiling at Bruce.

“Me too,” Steve chimes in, which gets everyone agreeing.

Bruce blushes and ducks his head - he’s way too normal for this group of weirdos, Clint thinks, fondly.

“Fine,” he says. “Don’t complain if you all fall asleep.”

***

**New York, December 23, 2012**

Tony had invited Bruce to Malibu, but Bruce was stressed enough just sitting in New York, waiting for news. He didn’t want to imagine what he’d be like if he was actually there while Tony performed experimental surgery on himself and on Pepper.

“Would you like another cup of tea, Dr Banner?” JARVIS asked politely.

Bruce rubbed the back of his neck. “No… no thank you,” he said. It turned out that camomile tea was less calming after an AI had forced half a dozen cups of it on you.

“There really is no need to be anxious,” JARVIS said. “Mr Stark is highly skilled.”

He’d been saying that, or something similar, all morning. Initially, Bruce had worried that he was broken and that Tony was going to haul himself out of his hospital bed to fix him, but then he’d realised that JARVIS was just as worried as the rest of them.

Or maybe more so. After all, he’d known Tony the longest.

“Really skilled,” Bruce agreed. “Don’t tell him I said that.”

There was something like a smile in JARVIS’s voice, although that was, of course, impossible. “I will be sure to keep that from him, Dr Banner.”

Bruce stood up and walked across Tony’s living room to the window. He liked the view from here; they were high enough that he could squint and pretend there was nothing holding him in. The Hulk liked that idea, so it calmed the ever-present gnawing feeling in Bruce’s chest.

“JARVIS,” Bruce said. “Is there anything I can _do_?”

“For Mr Stark, sir?” JARVIS asked. “I doubt it.”

“No. I’m sure he’s got everything covered. But just in general?” Maybe this was some people’s idea of a relaxing vacation, but Bruce couldn’t sit here, in someone else’s home, living off someone else’s charity without at least doing _something_ to make himself feel useful.

“Well, there is a list of charities who have requested donations from Stark Industries. Ms Potts usually deals with it, but with her current situation…”

“Yeah, I get it,” Bruce interrupted. “I can take a look, no problem. Is there a budget or something?”

JARVIS made a noise that wasn’t a laugh, since if AIs couldn’t smile, they definitely couldn't laugh. “Mr Stark likes to donate as much as possible. It annoys his accountant.”

Bruce smiled. He missed Tony, although that was something else he would never admit. “Well, let me know if I start to bankrupt them,” he said, and earned himself another not-laugh sound from JARVIS.

***

Bruce spent the rest of the afternoon scanning the list of charities who had applied for help. It should feel good, getting to spread some holiday cheer, but mostly he felt a little nauseous, thinking about all the other people who could have made use of this money, if only they’d lived on the right continent.

He was itchy under his skin, but in a different way from normal. This wasn’t the Other Guy getting restless, this was all on Bruce.

He started to scroll back through the files, looking for one that had caught his eye a little while ago. He’d shrugged it off then, but now he wasn’t sure.

“JARVIS,” he said, “can you call a car for me in the morning, please?”

“Is that wise, sir?” JARVIS asked, after a pause.

“Sure.” Bruce rubbed his hands on his pants, telling himself that he wasn’t nervous. How stressful could this be?

***

It turned out that a downtown soup kitchen on Christmas Eve could be incredibly stressful.

The lead volunteer looked suspicious when Bruce arrived out of the blue, but then he did the unthinkable and dropped Tony’s name, and they were suddenly delighted to see him.

This may have been his first mistake. Everyone was very busy, preparing meals and setting up the kitchen, but a lot of the volunteers still found time to seek him out, asking about the Mandarin, about how Tony was doing now.

Bruce was enjoying the rhythm of chopping vegetables; he was not enjoying reliving over and over the sorrow he’d felt at thinking Tony was dead.

The doors opened in time for lunch, and suddenly the dining hall was filled with men, women, and children, all of them focused on getting to the food.

Bruce tightened his hand around the serving spoon and focused on breathing. He wasn’t afraid of homeless people; he’d been one off and on. He was simply nervous of crowds, and that feeling grew worse when they were headed his way.

“Leek and tarragon soup?” he asked the first person to reach him, an older woman in a shawl and jeans.

“That got any meat in it?” she asked him, shaking her head and moving down the line to the chicken soup before he could answer. 

The line was carefully controlled, but there were still so many people, filling the hall and spilling out the door.

“We’re going to run out of soup before we run out of people,” Bruce said to the volunteer next to him.

She looked at him for a minute, then nodded. “Always happens,” she said. She didn’t sound uncaring, but a little spark of anger still flickered in Bruce’s chest.

He breathed it out.

“Can’t we make more?” he asked, but she was already shaking her head. “Why?”

“No more money.” She turned away from him, back to the serving line. “Unless your friend Mr Stark feels like dropping a couple of food parcels down from the sky.

She said it in a tone that suggested a man like Tony Stark would never do such a thing. Before he’d met Tony, Bruce would have thought the same, but now he knew that, if it had been any other year, one call would have made it happen.

It seemed so unfair that some of these people would go hungry without the intervention of a billionaire superhero. The city shouldn’t be letting this happen.

Bruce’s hand clenched around the spoon, but it wasn’t helping. He tried to serve up another bowl of soup, but his ladle scraped against the bottom of the pan, making a harsh, metallic sound that hurt his ears.

“Excuse me,” he said, and backed away from the table, heading for the exit at the back as fast as he could.

Someone tried to block his way with a, “Break’s not for another twenty minutes,” but Bruce pushed him aside as gently but firmly as he could, and kept walking. One foot in front of the other, until he reached the alley at the back of the building.

His pulse was hammering in his ears, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. This was a different sort of anger, one that couldn’t be cured by removing himself from a difficult situation.

The Other Guy was coming. Bruce knew that, knew there was nothing he could do about it. He dropped onto his knees as his bones started to stretch, pop, muscles bulging in a gradual building of agony.

“Sorry,” he told the empty New York sky, and let go.

***

Hulk was confused. Usually the Scientist woke him up when someone was yelling or shooting or needed to be smashed. But there was nothing like that here. Hulk was alone.

“Grnw?” he asked the Scientist but got no answer. There was never an answer. Lately, the Tin Man or the lady with the pretty red hair were there when Hulk woke up, so he went looking for them.

It was cold and bright, and the alleyway smelled bad. Hulk didn’t like it here. Hulk would like to give his body back to the Scientist and go back to sleep, but he didn’t know how to do that.

Hulk reached the end of the alleyway and walked out into the street. People screamed. People always seemed to scream; he didn’t know why.

He turned and looked for the screaming people. It was a long line of people, who smelled like the outdoors. They were backing up, away from him, but they weren’t running. Hulk hated when they ran; it made him mad.

He tipped his head and made a questioning noise. 

“Woah,” said a short human, pulling away from a taller human and coming closer. “Are you the _Hulk_?”

Hulk perked up. He _was_ Hulk. “Hulk,” he agreed, nodding. He pointed all around. “Avengers?”

The human shook his head. He was very short. “Nope, I haven’t seen them. Are you lost?”

Was Hulk lost? He didn’t know where he was. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do, if the Avengers didn’t need him. 

“Tommy,” the taller human called. “Tommy, get back here.”

“Mom,” the shorter human complained. “Mom, it’s the _Hulk_. He’s lost.”

“He’s a monster,” his mother said, which made lots of people around her say, “Shh!” like Hulk didn’t know that.

“Hungry,” Hulk decided, which made his new friend Tommy nod hard.

“Us too,” he said, “but they’re running out of food in there.” He sighed.

“No food?” Hulk asked. That wasn’t good. Hulk hated being hungry. 

“No,” Tommy said. “There was, but the line’s real long.”

Hulk looked up, narrowing his eyes because sometimes it was hard to focus on individual things, when the world was so full of things. He knew this place, he decided, and there was food somewhere near. He just needed to remember where.

“Wait,” he told Tommy. “Hulk fix.”

“Wait, where are you going?” Tommy called after him, but Hulk was walking down the sidewalk and didn’t want to stop.

He walked down the line of hungry people, happy when they didn’t jump away from him again. He didn’t want them to be scared of him; he wasn’t going to smash them. Hulk only smashed Hydra and Chitauri. And sometimes Thor, but only because that was funny.

Hulk sniffed, trying to remember when he had been here before. It wasn’t the place he had fought the Abomination. This place had calmer memories.

He stopped on the side of the road, waiting until he could cross. Cars screeched to a stop; a couple of people jumped out and started to run away.

Hulk huffed. He knew how to cross a road. They didn’t need to panic.

He lumbered across the road, kicking the wheel of an abandoned car, just because he was annoyed, and stepped up onto the sidewalk, sniffing again.

Something familiar caught his attention and he headed that way, following the smell of cooked meat and spices. 

He came to a stop outside a building selling food, and then he remembered when he’d been here before. This was his Tin Man’s shawarma shop. Hulk had come along, but then the Scientist had been hungry, so he’d woken up and Hulk had gone to sleep.

Hulk still didn’t know what shawarma was.

He pushed the little glass door, frowning when it swung open hard and crashed into the wall behind it. He’d been _gentle_. 

“What can I get you, sir?” the man behind the counter asked, then looked up - and up - at Hulk, blinking. “Heeeeey.”

“Food,” Hulk grunted. “Lots.”

“You, um.” The man tapped nervously on the counter. “You’re one of those Avenger guys, right? You want food, you got food.”

Hulk smiled. “Lots,” he repeated.

“Yeah.” The man laughed. “Big man like you, I guess you can eat a lot.”

Hulk shook his head and pointed out of the window. “No. Food for all.”

“For all those guys?” the man asked. He held up his hands. “I mean, I mean, sure, yeah, no problem. But um… Just gimme two seconds. I gotta call for reinforcements.”

“Three seconds,” Hulk said generously, then smiled again.

“Did you just… was that a joke?” the man asked. He leaned backwards toward the serving hatch. “Mindy! Get your ass out here; we got a mega order.”

He hip bumped the cash register when he straightened and it went _ting!_ It reminded Hulk of something. “No money,” he said. “Need money?”

“I, uh. Kind of.” The man shook his head. “Tell you what, I write an IOU to Mr Stark, you reckon he’d be good for it?”

“Yes,” Hulk grunted. He didn’t completely understand, but the Tin Man liked to do things for Hulk, even when he took his tin suit off. 

The man clapped his hands together. “Cool. Let’s get started then.” 

It took a long time to make enough shawarma for everyone, but Hulk enjoyed carrying it down the street and giving it to people. He’d never had this many people smile at him. 

Tommy and his mother helped him as soon as they realised what was going on, so they were the last people to get food. Hulk sat down with them on the sidewalk, stuffing shawarma into his mouth. He liked it. He wanted to have it again.

“This is awesome,” Tommy told him, showing all the half-chewed food inside his mouth. “You’re my favourite Avenger now.”

Hulk grinned back and hoped the Scientist remembered that, so he could tell Thor.

***

**Now:**

“See, that was boring, wasn’t it?” Bruce asks, but he looks pleased that everyone’s still listening.

“Far from it, my friend,” Thor assures him. “You should tell us more of your adventures in this Hall of Dining.”

“You’ll have to ask the Other Guy,” Bruce says. “I’m just telling you what the soup kitchen volunteers told me.”

“Did they find you clothes?” Steve asks, sounding concerned.

Tony chuckles, which earns him a glare from Bruce. “This only happened because you told me to stick around in New York, then you left, remember.”

Tony clutches a hand to his heart, still laughing. “Sorry, honey. I’m here with you this year, aren’t I?” He flutters his eyelashes. Pepper shoves him in one shoulder and Bruce shoves him in the other, which makes him make an hilarious face, like he thinks they’re going to squash him.

“This is nice, isn’t it?” Natasha asks Clint, leaning into his shoulder. “We’re building a good team.”

“It’s real nice,” he says, grinning at her. “I’ll remind you of that next time we’re in the field and you want to kill them.”

She looks at him levelly. “It’s not _them_ I want to kill. You are almost always included, too.”

Clint takes a leaf out of Tony’s book and flutters his eyes. “Shucks, you do love me,” he says.

Whatever Natasha’s about to say - and it’s probably going to be brutal; she has that sort of look in her eye - gets interrupted when something zips through the air, heading for her forehead.

Clint catches it automatically, already spinning around to impale it in whoever is attacking them, when he realises that it’s a pen.

“Jeez, Stark,” he groans, relaxing back into the couch, despite the adrenaline making his muscles want to tighten.

“Nice catch,” Tony says, not looking afraid at all, which he totally should, since Clint was a second away from lobbing the pen back and embedding it in his eyeball. “Come on, one of you needs to take a turn.”

“Turn?” Natasha asks.

“Your strangest Christmas,” Steve says. He shrugs. “We’ve all had our turns.”

“Pepper hasn’t,” Natasha says, while Clint panics inside, wondering if faking a sudden SHIELD emergency would get him out of this game.

Pepper snorts delicately. “I spent last Christmas with Extremis in my body,” she says. “There’s nothing stranger than that, and you already know that story. Surely you must have had some strange Christmases since joining SHIELD?”

Clint’s close enough to Natasha that he can feel her hesitating. He’s sure that she’s going to use her magical Black Widow skillz to dodge the question. Then she shocks him by saying, “Okay. I do have a story. But Clint has to say it’s okay to tell you all.”

Clint frowns at her. “Strasburg?” he asks. That happened at Christmas, but all they did was fuck a lot and then get yelled at by Sitwell for wasting company resources (condoms).

“I was thinking 2004,” she says. “My first Christmas.”

Clint’s first impulse is to say no, totally no, absolutely not, but that’s dumb and he knows it. Just because he doesn’t think he can deal with hearing her talk about Phil right now, doesn’t mean he shouldn’t get over himself.

“Sure,” he says slowly. The others aren’t going to understand why he’s being weird about it, so he _can’t_ be weird about it. “Knock yourself out. I’m going to get a drink. Anyone want one?”

“Tea, please?” Bruce says. “Are you okay?

Clint ignores him, but automatically locks eyes with Steve, who’s looking worried. “Do you want Natasha to wait until you’re - ” Steve asks.

“Nah,” Clint interrupts. “I’ve heard it.” He gives the room his least convincing smile, and pushes Natasha’s legs off his lap, walking as fast as he can to get out of the room, when he hears her start talking.

***

**New York, December 25, 2004**

Natasha had been sleeping when someone started to bang on her door; now she was wide awake and holding a knife to Clint Barton’s throat.

Clint swallowed, eyes a little glassy in a way that she suspected was not entirely due to fear.

“Hey,” he said slowly, “Merry Christmas?”

Natasha lowed the knife, but she did so slowly, so that Clint would not think she regretted pulling a knife on him. Anyone who came to someone’s front door at six a.m. deserved to have someone threaten to cut their throat.

She was reserving judgement on whether they deserved the threat being carried out.

“What do you want?” Natasha asked. SHIELD’s hallways were not well heated and she was cold, standing in the open doorway in the clothes she had slept in. 

“It’s Christmas,” Clint said, with a bouncy little shrug of his shoulders. “I figured you probably wouldn’t have any plans.”

“I do not,” Natasha agreed carefully. “What do you have in mind?” If it wasn’t excellent, she was going to close the door in his face and go back to bed.

“Traditional American Christmas,” Clint told her. “But first, you have to get dressed.”

“I have to?” Natasha asked, letting her tone turn just a little dangerous.

Clint huffed at her. He was always doing things like that; he wasn’t nearly as terrified of the Black Widow as he should be. “Please, Ms Romanoff, ma’am, please do me the honour of putting on pants and letting me take you out?”

He widen his ridiculous coloured eyes and pursed his lips. Natasha wasn’t easily swayed by a pretty face, but when she’d already planned to agree, it didn’t hurt.

“Fine,” she said and closed the door in his face as she’d been itching to do.

“Right, cool,” Clint called through the door. “I’ll just be… out here?”

Natasha smiled and went to take a shower. It was very early; he could stand to wait a minute longer.

***

The first thing that Clint did was take her down to the SHIELD canteen for breakfast. They had the place to themselves; in fact, Natasha had had most of the building to herself since yesterday.

“Hope aliens don’t invade today,” Clint said, as though that were an actual possibility. “Where the hell is everyone? Like, half the people here don’t even celebrate Christmas.”

“With families?” Natasha suggested. She didn’t ask him why he wasn’t with family; they hadn’t known each other long enough to talk about it, but everything about him screamed that he was alone.

“Poor them.” Clint shook his head. “They don’t know what they’re missing.”

“And what’s that?” Natasha asked. She’d let herself be talked into pouring maple syrup onto her bacon, even though that felt dangerously hedonistic. 

Clint fluttered his eyelashes at her. He really was the most ridiculous man she’d met in a long time. “A Clint Barton Christmas. Not to be missed.”

Natasha wasn’t sure this was a good idea. She had no sentimental attachments to Christmas - and, even if she had had, Christmas in Russia was not celebrated on 25th December - but she was dangerously close to making a friend, and she wasn’t sure she was ready for that, at all.

Still, Clint was looking at her hopefully and she was trying to be a better person; she couldn’t ignore such a blatant plea not to be left alone on Christmas Day.

“Fine,” she said. “But if I get cold or hungry, I’m coming home.”

“Totally fair,” Clint agreed, nodding as he leaned over and stole bacon from her plate.

She dug her fork into the back of his hand. In the interest of their potential friendship, she didn’t draw blood.

***

A Clint Barton Christmas consisted, in order, of:

1\. traditional strolling around New York in the wet snow  
2\. traditional climbing trees in Central Park  
3\. traditional visiting the High Line, despite the snow  
4\. traditional Christmas Chinese food  
5\. traditional watching of _It's A Wonderful Life_ on the tiny television in Natasha’s room.

Natasha wasn’t sure how traditional any of these things were, but she had to admit that they were fun. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d taken a day off to have _fun_.

Somewhere around the third bottle of wine they were sharing, she found herself telling Clint that.

He smiled at her, loose and sloppy - he was a lot more drunk than she was, but then, if he hadn’t been, she would have been ashamed of herself - “Stick with me,” he said. “I’m tons of fun.”

He drummed his finger on her thigh for a moment, then clapped his hands together. “Hey, you know who else is fun?”

“Who?” Natasha asked suspiciously. She’d thought he was hitting on her, that this day might end with the two of them in bed, and she wasn’t against that, but she was against inviting a third.

“C’mon.” Clint tumbled off her bed and grabbed her hand.

“Where?” She didn’t let him pull her to her feet. He looked surprised when he found that she was immovable, but she wasn’t; she could be stronger than most people, when she tried to be.

“Coulson,” Clint admitted, rubbing his face and grinning at her over the top of his fingers. “Let’s go bug him.”

“At his apartment?” Natasha asked. Agent Coulson didn’t strike her as a man who would take kindly two slightly-drunken assets interrupting his evening.

“Sure, what could he be doing that’s cooler than seeing us?” Clint tugged again and, this time, Natasha let herself be pulled to her feet.

“Spending the day with family?” Natasha suggested. “Or his wife.”

“Coulson doesn’t have a wife,” Clint said. He said it quick enough that Natasha was instantly suspicious. Maybe she was interested in visiting Coulson, if only to see what Clint was hiding.

***

“Do I even want to know?” Coulson asked, when he answered the door to the two of them. He was wearing a thick, red sweater and comfortable-looking black jeans.

Natasha was expecting Clint to quip but, instead, he seemed to be at a loss for words. Natasha frowned and elbowed him.

“Hey,” Clint said, apparently coming out of whatever momentary blip he’d fallen into. “We thought we’d come see you, shed a little Christmas magic on your night.”

“Barton, you’re drunk,” Coulson said, stepping back. “Ms Romanoff.”

Natasha nodded her head at him. “He’s been showing me a traditional Barton Christmas,” she told him. “Apparently you’re part of that.”

Surprisingly, Coulson smiled and ducked his head slightly. That piqued Natasha’s interest. She’d been involved with Coulson regularly since Clint brought her into SHIELD, but she’d never seen him look so human.

“Well, I can’t disappoint, I suppose,” he said and gestured for them both to sit on the couch.

Natasha perched on one edge, while Clint flopped across the other cushion. His foot was jiggling, which might have been a result of his inability to sit still, but Natasha thought was a nervous tick.

Something was definitely going on here. It was second nature to her to immediately suspect it had something to do with her, but she didn’t think it did. She was working hard at trusting Clint.

“Here,” Coulson said, and handed them both steaming mugs with whipped cream on top.

“What’s this?” Natasha asked, sniffing it suspiciously.

“Hot chocolate,” Coulson said. “With whipped cream, marshmallows, and a little whiskey.” He smiled at her. “It’s part of my own Christmas tradition.”

“Thank you,” Natasha said. She tucked her feet up under herself, doing her best to relax a little.

“There’s no marshmallows in mine,” Clint said, staring sadly into his mug. “What did I do?”

“You don’t like marshmallows,” Coulson said, shaking his head. “Remember, you told me when we had to hide out in that candy store in Baden-Württemberg?” 

“That was five years ago. You remember that, sir?” Clint bit his bottom lip, poking at his hot chocolate in what Natasha was fairly certain was a bid not to appear too pleased.

“Of course,” Coulson said, with a shrug. 

The power of Clint’s smile was too strong, and it slipped free of his teeth, mouth curving upward, although he kept his head down.

Natasha watched, strangely fascinated. She’d never been a real teenager, or had a group of friends with whom to socialise, but she wondered suddenly if this would be how that felt.

Coulson sat in the only other empty seat, a hard-backed armchair, and rested his ankles one over the other. “So what have you two been doing today?”

They told him, Clint becoming more relaxed the more hot chocolate he drank, and the more times they managed to make Coulson smile. 

“What about you?” Natasha asked, since she had been trained in how to be polite, and Clint obviously hadn’t.

Coulson shrugged, smiling slightly. “I’ve been watching old movies and reading a little. It’s been nice.”

“We watched _It’s a Wonderful Life_ , earlier,” Clint volunteered.

“Maybe we watched it at the same time,” Coulson said, and then they just smiled at each other for a while. Natasha reached over and picked up the pile of DVDs from the coffee table, so she didn’t have to watch any more of this.

“Did you want to watch one?” Coulson asked, apparently able to look away from Clint long enough to notice what she was doing. 

Natasha shrugged. “I haven’t seen any of them,” she said. “Are they interesting?” A lot of the movies Clint had told her were classics and insisted she watch were melodramatic romanticisations of a past she remembered being nothing but hardship.

“Are they… Barton, who exactly have you brought into my home?” Coulson rolled his eyes and then, when she was still recovering from witnessing him displaying that much emotion, he winked at her.

Clint laughed and Natasha realised that this wasn’t new to him; he wasn’t surprised to find Coulson being relaxed and approachable. “Quick, Tasha, put on _Miracle on 34th Street_ before he kicks us out.”

Natasha shuffled through the DVDs until she found that one. Even with Clint’s eyes, he wouldn’t have been able to see that Coulson had it from where he was sitting, which meant that he was familiar with Coulson’s selection of Christmas movies. 

She wondered if this was another tradition, if Clint came here every year. She wondered if Coulson had been waiting for him and how annoyed he was that Natasha was here too.

“Perhaps I should leave,” Natasha said. “The movie is for children; I would probably not enjoy it.”

“No, stay,” Clint said, widening his eyes in a way she suspected she was supposed to be able to read. “You’ll like it. It’s cute.”

“You’re very welcome to stay,” Coulson said quietly.

Natasha decided to let herself be convinced. The truth was that she didn’t actually want to leave, which was a strange feeling for her; she never wanted to do nothing, she usually felt aimless without a specific purpose in mind.

“This movie had better not make either of you cry,” she warned them and settled down to watch, Clint on one side and Coulson close enough that she was aware of his breathing.

She never would have predicted her year ending like this, but she couldn’t say that she objected to the fact that it had.

***

**Now:**

There’s silence for a while after Natasha finishes her story. Clint’s hiding in the kitchen like a coward, so he can’t see anyone’s faces, but he guesses they’re all thinking about Phil.

Good. Everyone should think about Phil every fucking second; he does.

“What did you think of the movie?” Pepper asks eventually. Her voice sounds a little thick.

“It made Clint cry,” Natasha says, and that makes everyone laugh.

It’s not true, but Clint doesn’t stick around to defend his honour. He knows that it’s his turn to tell a story now, and he just can’t face it. Most days, he can paste on a smile, a lot of times he isn’t even faking it, but today all his edges feel brittle, and he doesn’t want to shatter out there in front of everyone.

He abandons Bruce’s tea and takes the back way out of the kitchen, sneaks into the elevator, punching the button for his floor way harder than it deserves.

“Can you lock my floor for a while, JARVIS?” Clint asks. “I mean, unless there’s an emergency, or anything.”

“Certainly, sir. I’ll use my discretion, shall I?”

Clint closes his eyes. “Yeah,” he says, “please.”

***

**Portland, December 24, 2011**

“We put you both in the guest room, but if you’re saving yourselves until marriage or something...”

“Mom,” Phil groaned.

Mrs Coulson laughed. Clint ducked his head, and tried to decide if he was too embarrassed to smile or too embarrassed not to.

“This used to be Phil’s sister’s room,” she told Clint. “We turned Phil’s room into a library as soon as he moved out, just in case he tried moving back in.”

Clint nodded quickly and hoped his smile didn’t make him look like he had gas. He really wanted Phil’s mom to like him, but so far he hadn’t really managed any words beyond _hi_.

“We’ve got it, Mom, promise,” Phil said, wrapping his arm around her waist and giving her a squeeze against his side. It was strange watching him be affectionate like that, watching him be someone’s _son_. Most people believed Phil had hatched fully formed from the top of Fury’s head.

“Well, okay, if you’re sure,” she said doubtfully. “Your father’s making a pot of coffee, so come down once you’ve unpacked.” She patted Phil on the arm, then did exactly the same to Clint.

Clint sank down onto the bed as soon as Mrs Coulson had left them alone. “Ugh,” he groaned into his hands.

Phil laughed and sat down beside him. “It’s not that bad, is it?”

“I’m fucking it up,” Clint muttered. He peeked over the top of his fingertips at Phil. “I was gonna be awesome and shit and now she probably thinks I’m non-verbal.”

“She probably thinks you’re shy,” Phil said reasonably. 

Clint made a face. He wasn’t _shy_ , he just didn’t know how to talk to people. He was pretty good with inanimate objects, but that wasn’t helpful. “Give me a cheat sheet, okay?” he asked desperately. “Shit To Talk To Mrs Coulson About.”

Phil laughed at him again, leaning in and kissing the corner of his mouth. “Just talk to her like she’s anyone else. She’s not going to judge you; she’s just excited to meet you.”

“Making it worse,” Clint sang under his breath. 

“Come here,” Phil said, pulling Clint across the space between them, so Clint had to brace himself on Phil’s thigh so as not to fall into his lap. 

Well, _had to_ maybe wasn’t accurate; _did_.

“I’m here,” Clint said. They’d been together eight months - which was seven years too slow, according to Natasha - but he still got surprised, sometimes, when he found his face right up against Phil’s face.

“Good,” Phil said. “Now listen to me.”

Clint was distracted by the freckles on Phil’s nose, but he nodded and tried to look like he was listening. It was like being in a debriefing, but with more potential for kissing.

“You don’t have to impress my parents. I’m not going to dump you if you don’t pass some secret test.” He smiled. “Also? There is no secret test. You’re just here because it’s the holidays and I love you.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Clint said, after a tiny pause to regulate his heartbeat. “Don’t be so sappy, Coulson, god.”

“I can’t help it, I’m just a secret romantic,” Phil said then closed the gap between them, kissing Clint slowly. 

Clint knew that Phil was being sarcastic just then, but shit like this, when Phil kissed him just to kiss him, not because he wanted to fuck him, _was_ pretty romantic.

“Okay,” Clint said, pulling back. “We’re going downstairs. I’m going to have a conversation with your mom _and_ your dad. It’ll be great.”

“Treat it like a mission,” Phil agreed, straightening Clint’s collar for him. “But please don’t put an arrow in either of my parents.”

“No promises,” Clint said, and took a deep breath.

***

Treating dinner like a mission made everything way easier. Clint was able to answer questions about his past, while feeling like he was spinning a cover story.

Except he wasn’t allowed to lie, he was just allowed to skirt the truth. Kind of. A little bit.

So when Phil’s mom asked where he grew up, he could tell her that they’d lived all over, or when Phil’s dad asked where he went to school, he could say the SHIELD Academy and it was all true. 

Mostly.

By the end of dinner, Phil’s mom was insisting Clint called her by her first name and his dad was asking if he fished.

Clint did a very discreet fistbump with himself under the table. Or maybe not that discreet, since Phil rolled his eyes and reached over to lace their fingers together.

“Are you coming with us to Midnight Mass?” Phil’s dad asked, getting up from the table.

Clint shot a quick, panicked look at Phil, who shook his head, lips quirked slightly. “No, thank you,” Clint said, worried that that was going to fuck up all the good, meet-the-parents work he’d just done.

But they didn’t seem to care. Phil’s mom just looked fondly exasperated. In fact, it looked very similar to the way Phil would look at him after a mission went accidentally sideways.

Clint bit his lip, wondering how junior agents would feel about knowing that they were really getting a dressing-down from Agent Coulson’s mom.

“You can go, if you want?” Clint muttered to Phil. He’d never known Phil to go to church, but if he wanted to, Clint could entertain himself in Phil’s parents’ house and probably wouldn’t break anything.

Phil leaned in close. His parents looked busy, putting their coats and shoes on, and didn’t seem to notice. “Do you really think I’m going to lose the opportunity to have you all to myself?”

“I am not having sex in your parents’ house,” Clint told him, pretending to be scandalised. But, hey, he could probably be convinced.

***

Later, before Phil’s parents got home, but after Clint had _potentially_ been convinced, they sat on the old stone bench in the Coulsons’ backyard and watched snow start to fall around them.

“This is ridiculous,” Phil said, following the path of a snowflake from out of the darkness to the back of his bare hand. “People don’t really sit outside in the snow on Christmas Eve. Stop turning my life into a movie, Barton.”

Clint tugged his legs up onto the bench, resting his knees on Phil’s thighs and his head on Phil’s shoulder. “Me?” he asked. “You’re the one with the family home that looks like a gingerbread house, and the adorable parents who wear aprons and _bake_. If anyone’s making life into a movie, it’s you.”

Phil leaned down and kissed the tip of Clint’s ear. Clint’s ear was cold, so it felt doubly nice.

“It’s strange having you here,” he said thoughtfully. Clint told himself this was probably going somewhere good, so managed not to tense up. “It’s been thirty years since I brought anyone home for the holidays.”

Clint smiled into Phil’s collar. “If it helps, I’ve never been brought home, before.” He didn’t add that he’d never had a real Christmas before, then thought _what the hell_ and said it.

“Never?” Phil asked. He brought his arm up and wrapped it around Clint’s shoulders; Clint slid his own arm around Phil’s waist.

“Maybe when I was real small?” Clint said. “I think we had a tree and some lights and things, but I don’t remember it, not really. Your whole…” He waved a hand. “This is so weird to me. Good weird, though.”

“It’s yours now too,” Phil said. He said it slightly quickly, like he got nervous about it halfway through, but he sounded sure, too. “If you want to, we can do this every year.”

Clint closed his eyes. He wasn’t stupid enough to assume that he’d get to keep Phil forever, but even just the offer felt awesome. Fuck, even just the offer made it easier to believe that he _might_ get to keep Phil.

“Yeah, okay,” he said. “Sign me up for next year, too.”

***

**Now:**

Clint leans his forehead against his bedroom window and stares down at the tiny cars zipping around the street below.

They never got a next year. Phil was dead by Christmas 2012 and Phil’s mom and dad hadn’t called.

“Dammit, Phil,” Clint whispers and draws his hand back, punching the glass so hard that the first layer cracks around the indent of his knuckles.

***

**[Location Redacted] December 25, 2013**

“Are you sure you don’t want to come too, sir?” Simmons asks, for at least the ninth time that morning. “Mum and Dad won’t mind. There’s plenty of room.”

“Jemma,” Phil sighs, “You’re already going to be a day late, your parents aren’t going to appreciate you bringing a whole team of strangers home with you, too. Besides, I’m fine here. Really.”

Skye’s watching him suspiciously, but she doesn’t say anything. Across the tarmac, Melinda revs the Bus’s engines meaningfully.

“Oh dear, we’re going to be late… lat _er_.” Simmons picks up the last of her stuff - a potted plant, which she’s been carrying around since Australia and is apparently for a Great Aunt - and waves her elbow at him. “Good bye, sir. Happy Christmas.”

Already inside the Bus, Fitz nods his head. Phil nods back.

He’s expecting that to be that, but then Skye makes a frustrated noise and runs back to him, wrapping her arms around him in a quick, tight hug.

“Don’t be too lonely,” she whispers in his ear, then darts off again, leaving Phil feeling a little confused and a little cold.

He doesn’t wait to watch them take off, just turns back to Lola, leaning against her side a little harder than he normally would.

Phil wasn’t lying. He will be fine. He’s got a hotel room; he can get cable and watch movies. It’s just that it already seems too quiet, and the team has only been gone two minutes.

He opens Lola’s door and slides inside, hands on the wheel.

“Christmas is just another day,” he tells her. “I’ll do some paperwork. That’ll keep me busy.” 

Lola doesn’t say anything.

Phil deliberately doesn’t think of past Christmases, of his cheesy movie tradition with Clint and Natasha, of taking Clint home the year before last, of promising to do it again.

“Fuck,” Phil groans, and rests his head on the steering wheel. “Lola. Let’s go for a drive.”

***

Phil does not get permission for a flight plan that buzzes Stark Tower, but he goes there anyway. He’s engaged stealth mode and he’s not planning to land, so there’s very little Nick can complain about.

All Phil intends to do is look. He knows the Avengers are spending Christmas together, because Sitwell keeps him informed, even if no one else will. He takes Lola as near to the windows as she can get without setting off Stark’s paranoid defense mechanisms, and sets her to hover.

They’re all in there, sprawled across couches and cushions on the hardwood floor. They’re laughing, and Phil can’t feel anything but glad. 

He tries to remain distant, tells himself that he is absolutely not going to do anything embarrassing and unwanted, but his eyes disobey him and start scanning for Clint.

Clint’s not there with the others, and it sparks a flicker of worry in Phil’s chest. He knows Clint hasn’t been recalled for any missions over the holidays - he gets updates from Sitwell about that, too - and Natasha wouldn’t be sitting there with the others, if something had happened. But he still worries.

He’s too old to behave like this, he tells himself, but that doesn’t stop him from tilting Lola’s nose up, riding a floor higher, wondering where Clint is.

He’s not on the roof, which would be the most likely place, and Phil’s trying to convince himself to give up, when he sees a sliver of movement out of the corner of his eye.

Lola glides down gently until she’s level with the windowpane Clint is leaning against. His eyes are closed and he looks so lost that Phil freezes, only triple-glazed glass and one stealth mode cloak between them.

It’s been over a year since they were this close and Phil tries his best never to think of that last time.

Clint lifts a hand, rubbing it under his nose and then across his face. Phil watches a smear of dampness shine across his cheeks, and feels his heart lurch. This isn’t right, Clint isn’t supposed to be alone and upset.

Phil wants to go in there, desperately wants to, but it would break the promise he made to Nick and, more importantly, the one he made to Clint.

Then Clint draws his fist back and slams it into the glass and Phil’s mind is made up.

***

Phil parks Lola on the roof, away from any of Stark’s landing pads, and says, “Protocol 8, JARVIS.”

“Sir,” JARVIS says. “Mr Stark found and disabled the override protocols you left in my systems. He said you didn’t need them anymore, because you were dead.”

Phil smiles ruefully. “Well, I’m not dead,” he says.

“So it would appear,” JARVIS agrees.

“Listen, I’m not here to cause any trouble, and I’m sorry about overriding you last time I was here. I just need to see Agent Barton for a minute. I’ll leave quietly after that.”

“Agent Barton asked not to be disturbed,” JARVIS says. Phil thinks he sounds disapproving. 

Phil is suddenly exhausted. He wishes he’d never come here and he wishes he’d never left. “Please, JARVIS. It’s Christmas.”

“I have not been programmed with any specific religious affiliation,” JARVIS says primly, but lets the doors into the Tower slide open.

“Thank you,” Phil says sincerely, and hurries inside before JARVIS changes his mind. He has a mental map of Stark Tower from his previous visits, but everything is laid out differently now that the Avengers live here.

He knows that the window that Clint was standing at was one floor down and to the west of where Phil landed, though, so it doesn’t take too long until he reaches a corridor lit with muted purple lighting.

He smiles to himself and shakes his head. Whether Clint requested it, or whether it’s Stark’s idea of a joke, it fits well. There’s a sign on the door reading _Clint Barton: Keep Out_ , which is definitely Clint’s doing.

Phil’s hand feels as though it should be shaking when he lifts it to knock, but he manages to hold steady. The knock sounds loud, but he wonders if Clint will ignore it.

The pause is brief, in reality, but it feels as though it takes hours. Then Clint flings his door open. And freezes.

“I know you don’t want to see me,” Phil says quickly, trying a smile, trying to make it clear that that doesn’t hurt. “I just wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas.”

Clint’s lips move soundlessly and then keep moving. “Merry Christmas?” he whispers, voice barely audible. “You…” His breath catches and he stumbles back, hands over his eyes.

“Clint?” Phil asks, worried. Blood is running down the back of Clint’s hand from the cuts on his knuckles.

“I’ve flipped,” Clint mumbles into his palms. “I’ve finally flipped. It’s been so long, I thought it’d be okay, but I’ve really, really, really…”

“Clint.” Phil steps into Clint’s space and catches him by the wrists. He kicks the door shut behind them. This is beyond not being wanted; Clint sounds on the edge of a panic attack, just from seeing him. “Stop.”

Unexpectedly, Phil finds himself with his arms full of shaking Clint Barton. His breath is hitching, his hands opening and closing against Phil’s sides as if he’s afraid to hold on. Phil has missed a variable somewhere, and it looks as though it was an important one.

Clint’s hair smells different, which is understandable, since he always used to steal Phil’s shower gel. Phil breathes it in anyway. “Should I not have come?” he asks, stroking one hand lightly over Clint’s back, the softness of his sweater.

“I have no idea what’s happening to me,” Clint tells him, “but I don’t really care. Hold me tighter?”

Phil does as he’s asked, because he’s not sure what else to do. He’s feeling hopeful, which is a terrible feeling after eighteen months of pushing Clint out of his mind.

“You’re really strong for a ghost,” Clint says, voice rising on the end like he can’t quite control it.

Phil finally makes himself stop enjoying the feeling of Clint in his arms again and pulls back. Clint makes a hurt noise, and Phil finds himself cupping Clint’s jaw, murmuring, “Shh,” to him, then, “Barton, look at me.”

Clint does, slowly. He lifts his head, and there’s such bleakness in his eyes that Phil wants to abandon talking and just hold him again.

“Why would I be a ghost, Clint?” Phil asks, carefully.

Clint’s breath stutters in and he presses a hand to his diaphragm as though it hurts. “Death?” he says. “There was some death. You died. You don’t remember?”

“I died for eight seconds,” Phil says. “Then I got better. You and I spoke after that, remember? You came to the hospital.”

Clint shakes his head slowly. His stubble rasps against Phil’s fingertips. “I didn’t.”

“But I remember,” Phil says. He remembers every second. It’s all he can think about, every time missing Clint gets too much, when he reaches for the phone, he hears Clint’s voice again: _it’s too late, I’ve moved on, go back to what you’re good at._

He freezes, fingers stilling. There’s a suspicion forming at the back of Phil’s mind, but it’s so terrible, he doesn’t want to give thought to it.

Clint looks at him. “Phil?” he asks, barely sounding out the word.

Phil’s throat feels tight. “I have to make a call,” he says. “Give me two minutes.”

“Yeah, no way.” Clint laughs shakily. “If I can’t see you, you’re going to disappear. I know how this shit works.”

Phil would argue that he’s neither a ghost nor a Greek myth, but he’s busy trying not to explode in anger until he has a few things confirmed. He sits down on the bed and pulls out his cellphone.

Clint sits next to him, then gets up, walks away, walks back, eventually sits down on the floor by Phil’s feet, just as the call connects.

“Calling me up to wish me a Merry Christmas?” Nick asks. “Coulson, I’m touched.”

“Please tell me that you didn’t put a trigger in my brain to make me think my relationship was over,” Phil says.

From the floor, Clint’s head snaps up, and he stares, eyes wide and unblinking. “What?” he asks. He rolls up onto his knees, leaning up to hear the call.

It’s the most engaged that he’s been since Phil arrived, so Phil puts the phone on speaker, even though he’s not sure he wants anyone to overhear this.

“Where are you?” Nick asks carefully. 

Phil decides not to answer that. “I remember my relationship ending,” he says. “I remember you bringing me a bunch of grapes since you couldn’t get me drunk while I was in the hospital.”

Clint’s hand finds Phil’s. Phil squeezes.

“Look, tell me where you are and we can talk about this face to face,” Nick says, which means he’s not in the office, or he’d already have traced Phil’s location.

Phil knows he’s holding Clint’s hand too hard, but he can’t stop himself, and he knows Clint can take it. “No,” he says. “You son of a bitch, how could you - ”

“Get off your damn high horse and listen,” Nick snaps. 

“I am so close to being done listening to you,” Phil says, not in the least bit surprised to realise how much he means it. First Tahiti, now this. He feels like a puppet in the middle of someone else’s show.

Nick blows out a breath. It gusts noisily through the speakerphone. Clint’s staring down at the phone like it holds the answers to every question he’s never dared ask.

“Look,” Nick says. “The techniques they had to use to save your life were… experimental. The Security Council didn’t want to let me do it. This was the only way.”

“What? They said _sure, we’ll save his life but only if he spends the rest of it alone_?” Phil asks. “Why would they want that?”

“They wanted you away from the Avengers. They were worried about controlling the team and they thought you’d make them more likely to rebel. That was the deal: the Avengers couldn’t know.” Nick’s voice drops. If he were someone else, Phil might think he sounded apologetic. “I knew I could persuade you to let the others think you were dead, even Romanoff eventually, but you were never going to leave Barton.”

“No,” Phil agrees. “I would never do that.”

Clint makes a noise, muffled by Phil’s pant leg, then jumps to his feet. Phil watches him closely as he walks to the window with the crack in it, but all he does is lay his head against the glass.

“Nick,” Phil says. “I’m going to go. We’ll talk later. I’m probably going to punch you in the eye.”

“Fair enough,” Nick agrees. “And Coulson? I’m not sorry.”

Phil doesn’t trust himself to speak, just ends the call and drops his phone onto Clint’s bed. “Did that help?” he asks carefully. “Or make it worse?”

“Fucking, fucking, fuck,” Clint mutters. “Fucking _bastards_.”

“Me?” Phil asks. He puts his hands on Clint’s shoulders.

Clint spins around, hands clutching the front of Phil’s sweatshirt. “No. Not you. God, no, not _you_.” 

He looks wild, desperate and split wide open. Phil might have spent the last year and a half dealing with a broken heart, but it’s easy to see in this moment, that Clint’s spent that time grieving.

Phil is definitely going to follow through on his threat to punch Nick, next time he sees him.

“What?” Clint asks, studying Phil just as closely as Phil’s studying him.

Phil wants to kiss him, but Clint looks as though he’s hanging on by a thread. Phil is aware that he might have to be the one to break that thread, but not now.

Clint sighs and leans into him, head on Phil’s shoulder, arms tight around Phil’s waist.

“Is it really you?” Clint asks, mouth against Phil’s throat. “You swear?”

“I swear,” Phil promises. Now is no time to get into complicated nightmares and fake memories of Tahiti. 

“This is the best dream I’ve ever had,” Clint tells him.

It isn’t funny, but Phil laughs.

They stand like that for a very long time. Clint’s fingers are dug tight into Phil’s back, and his breath goes from shaky to even over and over again.

The sky outside turns from winter dark to night dark, and eventually, Phil makes himself clear his throat. “You don’t have to let go of me,” he says, since he doesn’t want that either, “but I’m an old man. Can we lie down?”

“You’re not an old man,” Clint says. It sounds almost fierce, as though now that Phil’s proven himself to be alive, he’s no longer allowed to be mortal.

Phil kisses Clint’s temple and lets go of him. “Come on,” he says, kicking off his shoes. “I’m assuming the bed is ridiculously comfortable, since it’s one of Stark’s.”

“It’s okay,” Clint says, shrugging. He’s watching Phil with that same fixed stare as earlier, as though he’s afraid to blink again. Phil has always enjoyed being the centre of Clint’s attention, but now he hates that look.

“Lie down, Barton,” he says softly, which at least kicks Clint into action. He lies down on the bed, rolling onto his side, and keeping Phil in his sights at all times.

Phil stretches out beside him, putting his hand on Clint’s shoulder and gently nudging him until he’s lying on his back. When he’s settled, Phil lays his head on Clint’s broad chest, just below his collarbone.

Clint isn’t the only one who hasn’t been held in a long time; it feels excellent.

“Stark and the others were telling stories about dumb things they’ve done at Christmas,” Clint says, out of nowhere. “And then Nat told them about the time we spent the day bugging you?”

Phil smiles. “Which time?” he asks.

“First time.” Clint doesn’t quite laugh back, but there’s something there. “Then all I could think about was your parents, and how nice they were to me and - ” He lifts his head. “Do they know?”

“That I’m alive?” Phil asks. Clint nods, chin brushing Phil’s hair. “Yes, they know. I told them we’d split up. I honestly… I honestly did believe that.”

“I know.” Clint presses closer, as though that were possible. One of his hands slides under the waistband of Phil’s pants, curling around his bare hip. Phil doesn’t think it’s a come-on, just another way to hold on. “Idiot. That’d never happen.”

“I was compromised at the time,” Phil says. “I’d just died.”

Clint’s arms spasm around him, but he tries to laugh it off. “Sorry. Sorry, maybe… could you phrase that differently, just for a while?”

“Sorry,” Phil says gently. He stares across at the wall and tries to get his mind around how different his world looks now from how it looked a hour ago. “Do you want to hear about what I’ve been doing?”

“Later?” Clint asks. “I really do. But… later?”

Phil lifts his head and looks down at Clint. “Okay,” he says. He lets himself smile. “It’s a good story. It involves Melinda May.”

Clint’s eyes dance just a little, just enough to show some life. “All the best stories involve Melinda May.”

Phil intends to smile and agree, but he’s very close to Clint now, and he can’t remember how to do that. “Can I kiss you?” he asks instead. Clint’s eyes flare, so he hurries to say, “Or not. It’s fine, if not. I’m not expecting anything from you.”

“Fuck it, yeah,” Clint says, and lifts his head, bumping their lips together in a clumsy kiss.

Phil smiles against Clint’s mouth and cups the back of his neck, holding him in place for another try. 

Clint sinks back down into the pillow, hands clutched tight around Phil’s shoulders. The kiss is hesitant, more uncoordinated than even their first kiss was, and that makes Phil sad; they’ve lost so much time. However, he can only be so wistful when he’s kissing Clint. He never expected to be here again.

They kiss for a long time. Every time Phil tries to pull back, thinking that perhaps they should talk, Clint makes sad noises and tugs him back in.

Phil doesn’t really think - his brain is preoccupied with better things - but at the back of his mind, he can’t help but wonder how much stubble burn he’s going to be sporting when he goes back to the Bus, and what his team are going to think about that.

“Sirs,” JARVIS’s voice cuts through the quiet daze of being wrapped up in each other.

“Ugh, what?” Clint asks, hand on the base of Phil’s throat, fingertips stroking his adam’s apple distractingly.

“Agent Romanoff is demanding admittance. Mr Stark is threatening to override your door controls, if you do not let her in.”

“Tell them I’m busy,” Clint says.

“I did, sir,” JARVIS says, sounding apologetic. “But they do not appear to believe me.”

“Barton?” Tony’s voice cuts across JARVIS’s. “Can you just tell Agent Paranoia out here that you’re not listening to Joni Mitchell and sobbing into a razor blade?”

“What?” Clint mouths at Phil.

Phil shrugs. He sits up, and looking very reluctant, so does Clint. 

“Hang on,” Clint says. “JARVIS mute me for a sec?” He turns to Phil. “What do we do? Want to escape out the window?”

It’s tempting, but Phil knows he’s going to have to face the other Avengers, eventually. “Let’s stand our ground,” he says. “How bad can they be?”

Clint’s face twists, but he nods jerkily. “Yeah. Sure. Right?”

“Clint?” Phil asks, leaning around him until Clint has no choice but to look at him. “What’s wrong? I’ll talk about being dead again, if you don’t answer me.”

Clint’s smile looks reluctant. “It’s dumb,” he says softly. “But what if they can’t see you?”

Phil frowns for a moment before he gets it. “Oh god. Clint. I swear I’m real.”

“I know.” Clint nods. “But what if…”

“I _swear_ ,” Phil says. He runs his fingers through Clint’s hair, straightening it for him, even though Natasha won’t care. It’s really just an excuse to touch him.

Clint reaches up and tangles their fingers together, squeezing hard.

“If you disappear, or if they can’t see you, I am going to fucking murder you,” Clint tells him, sounding like he means every word. 

Phil leans in and kisses him. “That’s more than fair,” he says.

Clint’s eyes lock on Phil. “JARVIS,” he says. “You can let them in.”

Phil can hear movement in the hallway. He knows he isn’t a ghost, so there’s no need to be worried, but Clint’s nervousness is affecting him.

“Clint,” he says quickly, wanting one more second before Natasha and Stark appear and probably attempt to punch him.

“Yeah?” Clint asks, bright blue eyes meeting Phil’s.

Phil smiles at him, feeling his nerves melt away. “I forgot to say: Merry Christmas.”

/End

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Vienna Teng's Atheist Christmas Carol.


End file.
